


The Long Way Home

by Sairyn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Boys In Love, Feelings, First Love, First Time, M/M, True Love, in and out of canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 01:54:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11174580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sairyn/pseuds/Sairyn
Summary: Falling in love is easy..especially when you're young. For John and Sherlock it was love at first sight. But decisions and real life get in the way of happily ever after. Maybe it just wasn't the right time. Then again, maybe they were just doing it wrong.





	The Long Way Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [novemberhush](https://archiveofourown.org/users/novemberhush/gifts), [writingtoreachyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingtoreachyou/gifts).



> If you get a chance- listen to   __  
> [The Greatest Bastard](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GLPCTw0eUn0)  
>  by Damien Rice while you read this- it's a perfect soundtrack to this tale . Thank you writingtoreachyou) ;) 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  

_Marry me; come back to me_

 

The first time those words were uttered, they were spoken in broken whispers. It was in fourth year. Having met in a shared class, the “Freak” and the athlete somehow became fast friends. Much to the surprise of everyone around them. Even more surprising was that months after they met, they became more than friends. Over the next two years, the two of them experienced many firsts. Their first kiss was after a rugby tournament behind the bleachers. Sherlock was attempting to leave unnoticed having yet to comprehend why John captured his attention, and John unable to stop himself from pulling the taller boy to end the embarrassment of being caught. The kiss was uncoordinated, messy and a surprise to them both. And once John’s chapped lips brushed against Sherlock’s plush cupid’s bow, he couldn't stop himself from having another and another. Soon both their collars were littered with purple bruises. John was the first to notice. With a small gasp, he abruptly pulled back.

“What? What happened? Did I do something wrong?” Sherlock had asked, his voice rattled.

“No. I think I did.” John’s finger grazed over one of the larger marks and Sherlock shuddered. “I’m sorry. I guess I kind of got carried away.”

“Really, John. That is what concerns you at this moment?”

“Well, people will see them, I mean they may talk.” 

Sherlock smiled, and pulled John back into him, rubbing his chin against John’s cheek. “I don't care,” he whispered huskily. “Besides, people do little else.”

Within weeks, their innocent kisses grew long and morphed into heated snogging sessions, leaving them both wanting more. And then on a night when Sherlock’s family had departed for the weekend, they laid on Sherlock's bed. The movie playing in the background was forgotten in favour of wandering hands, and tongues, while item after item of clothing found their way to the floor. That night, neither of them wanted to stop, but any further would have them crossing a bridge they hadn't discussed. Not really. John began drifting his kisses down Sherlock’s body, eager to take his boyfriend into his mouth, when a hand stopped his descent.

“John, I want to…”

Sherlock’s voice rumbled with want , with need, and John felt his arousal spike even more.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Please, John. I want to. I’m ready… Are you?”

John gazed into his boyfriend's eyes. John _was_ ready, he had been more than ready, but never wanted to push or rush.

“Please,” Sherlock rolled up into John’s body and John couldn't stop the moan that fell from his lips.

“Yes,” John answered as he kissed Sherlock’s perfect lips. And so that night they experienced another first as John took Sherlock and claimed him as his own.

That was three years ago. During that time, the athlete became a doctor and the freak became a genius with a skilled eye for details. But on the last night before they were to leave uni, they experienced one more first. They were lying together in John’s bed, trying to regain control of their heartbeats and breaths as their combined come stuck to the sweat on their skin, when the other shoe dropped.

“John, I love you.”

John’s breath caught, and his eyes widened in shock. He never once thought he would hear those words fall from his gorgeous boyfriend’s lips. It's not that he didn't feel the same, he did. It was that truth that made the secret he’d been holding that much harder to share.

“Sherlock, I love you, too...”

“John, I never want us to be…”

“I’ve joined the army.”

 _Shit_! John hadn't meant to blurt it out. Quickly, he turned to face the man he loved with all his heart. “Sherlock...”  He reached out to grasp Sherlock’s chin, hoping to ease the rest of the conversation, but he could see that Sherlock was already lost to him as he shrunk away from John’s touch.

“I don't understand,” Sherlock blinked over and over, apparently replaying John’s last few words. “People in war get shot, John; soldiers die and don't come home. Why would you think so little of yourself… ”

How could John tell him that being a doctor wasn't enough? That somewhere he knew he had to do this; that he had to become a stronger, better man, not just one who healed others safely behind antiseptic walls. No, he needed to be able to push himself, become _more_. John hadn't come to this decision rashly, in fact it was one of the hardest choices he had ever made so far in his life. He didn't want to leave his home, all he knew, and more than anything else he didn't want to leave Sherlock.

“Please look at me,” he begged. “Sherlock, I love you. I want to be with you. I promise, I won't be gone forever and we can still be together.”

“I don't believe you, John,” he retorted, stumbling out of bed, reaching for his clothes.

“Listen to me, dammit! I do love you.”

Sherlock looked at John with a cool expression. His features hardening with each passing moment.  “Prove it. Stay.”

John sighed, and cast his gaze downward.

Sherlock, having heard the unspoken answer, swept out of the room.

It took everything in John not to run after the lanky figure who was making quick work of exiting his dorm room- the bastard. But there, in that moment, he didn't know what else to do. After a fitful night with too many tears and too little sleep, John made a decision. Before the sun was even fully risen, he stood outside Sherlock’s door, dressed in his best pair of trousers and button-down shirt. In his hand was a promise, a wish and a prayer all wrapped up in a single question. Before he could knock, the door swung open. Sherlock was dressed in a crumpled t-shirt and pajama bottoms. It was clear that he hadn't slept either.

“Sherlock, can I please... just please give me five minutes.”

Sherlock never answered, but moved aside to let John in.

“Thank you.” John moved in to grab Sherlock and pull him close, but stopped when he noticed Sherlock stiffen.

“Oh, love…”

“You have 4 minutes and 27 seconds. I suggest you get on with it.”

“Yes. Well. Look, Sherlock, we have been together for almost three years now and I can't imagine being with anyone else. You of all people should know how important it is for me to become something. I want to be worthy of you, Sherlock.” He gazed up into the eyes that were now shading grey and went for broke.

“Marry me, Sherlock. Let me come home knowing it is you, as my husband, I will be coming back to. What do you say?”

Sherlock’s eyes grew momentarily wide before squinting into the familiar gaze of scrutiny. John knew he was being deduced, his actions and inactions being deduced one by one, but he had nothing else to hide. This was his heart and he was handing it over to Sherlock to do with it what he pleased. He closed his eyes and waited.

“No.” 

John gasped, caught off guard. “No?” he choked out.

“No,” Sherlock stated again softly, moving closer to him. “I won't marry you, John Watson.”

Sherlock pulled John into a tender hug; his fingers drifted across John’s cheek briefly, then kissed it tenderly before pulling away. Sherlock looked as if he was in pain, his eyes were red and brimmed with unshed tears. John bit his lip, held it together while Sherlock backed up a few more feet, took a deep breath then schooled his features into cool indifference. With a quick nod, Sherlock turned away to retreat into his bedroom. John felt the world around him crumble, but he refused to break down. 

“Right then,” John whispered to the empty room.  His feet began to move without thought. As he reached the door, he heard the familiar deep baritone one last time.

“Be safe, John Watson. Come back to me.”

John paused, then walked out the door, trying to remind his broken heart to beat again.

The second time those words were uttered, several years had passed. They say you never forget your first love. That the memory of it lives somewhere deep in your heart unable to be touched or for that matter be surpassed.

When John returned from war invalided, he was a shell of the boy who once left. His childhood hopes of saving the world were destroyed, replaced by one broken man after another being brought before him, bullet-ridden and bloodied. John would have liked to say he saved more than he lost, but he made it a habit not to lie to himself. There was no other word for it. War was hell. There are those who don't survive it, others that do and those who did survive but wish they didn't. That was where John was. Plagued by too many nightmares that he saw even before he closed his eyes. Whereas once the battlefield was sand, death and blood, the battle he struggled with since coming home consisted of a sparse bedsit, grey walls and a loaded gun that sat in wait.

John didn't expect his life to change that day, he ran into Mike at the park. And he definitely didn't expect to be reconnected with the boy he gave his heart to before he left for war. All John knew when he walked back into St. Bart's, was that he needed something, something that would make his life whole again. When he entered the lab, he wasn't sure if his wildest dreams had come true, or if he was about to enter a new nightmare. As it turned out, it was a little of both. 

When the mop of inky curls raised up from the microscope, John gasped, then attempted to cover his outburst with a small cough. He would never forget the eyes that once looked at him with tenderness and love. And for a moment he felt like he was twenty years old, when he met the new student and lab partner Sherlock Holmes for the first time.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The question caught him off guard. John wrote him when he first discovered he was being shipped out. Not that Sherlock ever responded. John had written Sherlock several letters those first few months away but stopped after repeated no replies. _Did the man not remember him? Did what they had mean so little_? As if he had spoken the question out loud, Sherlock cut his eyes briefly to Mike and then returned John’s gaze, raising one brow.

 _Oh_. “Afghanistan.”

It wasn't until they were both safely behind the doors of 221B Baker Street, that Sherlock let the facade go.

“You came back.”

“Told you I would.”

‘You got hurt. I seem to recall telling you that would happen.”

John shrugged.

Before they could get any further, they were interrupted by a Scotland Yard detective, looking for help in the recent string of suicides John had heard about.

“You are more than welcome to stay here if you like,” Sherlock offhandedly told him. “Or…” he paused.

“Or what?”

“Or you could assist me. I must warn you though, it could be dangerous.”

“Oh God, yes.”

It wasn’t until they were sitting at Angelo’s that they were able to resume their earlier conversation.

“You're different,” Sherlock mentioned while pushing food around his plate.

“Yes. And so are you.”

Gone was the uncoordinated shy boy who was smart, tender and loving. The person in front of him now was all angles and lean muscle, with haunting eyes and cutting cheekbones. Layered in a posh suit that left little to the imagination, Sherlock had evolved into one gorgeous creature. Unfortunately, he had also grown cold. John couldn’t believe when he heard Sherlock skate the border of cruelty as he berated those around him. With each acerbic spoken thought, he dismissed any and all social niceties as if they were nothing but a nuisance to be discarded. It was a far cry from the boy John left behind.

“John, it's been almost a decade. It’s natural that we both would have changed.”

“I guess.” John paused, suddenly at a loss for words. _Why was talking to Sherlock so hard?_ John wondered. “And you're doing… well? I presume. A consulting detective, is it?”

“Like I said, world's only.”

“Suits you. Although you could stand to care more for yourself. Have a proper meal more often, not do… things that hurt you.” John’s eyes glanced down to the arms now hidden inside coat sleeves. John remembered catching glimpses of scars that hinted of past drug use when they were in the lab.

“What I did while you were… away”, he spat, “...is no concern of yours.”

Undaunted, John continued. “Maybe, but what about someone else, hm? Your family. Maybe a girlfriend?” John doubted that Sherlock would have begun dating women, but decided it was best not to assume.

Sherlock frowned. “Not my area.” The _as you well know,_ went unsaid, but heavily implied.

“Boyfriend then? I mean, it's fine you know,” John stuttered.

“I know it's fine. Since you seem to insist on this line of questioning, I consider myself married to my work.”

And something about that statement made John sad. But before he could wonder why, Sherlock went running after a lone cabbie. Without a second thought, when John watched him rush off into danger, he did the only thing he could think of - he ran after him. When they stood breathless and giggling back at Baker Street, John’s cane left behind somewhere along the way, John felt more alive than he had since his time before the war.

“So, you’re staying then?” Sherlock asked, appearing to read John’s mind.

If John ever had a doubt, one look at the mad genius at his side, had him saying yes, before he could talk himself out of it.

It wasn’t perfect. Hell, some days it wasn’t even good, with experiments and body parts consuming almost every available space of their flat. They solved crimes, they went on adventures, and that was damn near perfect. But on a personal front, John and Sherlock remained distant. They both seemed to accept the fact that they would be nothing more than friends. Although the more accurate description was that they both chose to ignore, if not flat out deny the possibility that they still had feelings from themselves and each other. John told everyone that he wasn't gay as to not “out” Sherlock and began to date -  trying to replace the emptiness with soft curves and breasts. While Sherlock remained aloof and unapproachable as ever. He threw himself into every situation, dangerous or not, to keep the status quo.

It wasn't until John emerged from the pool with semtex strapped to his person that those things unspoken and hidden bubbled up to the surface. John was a soldier; he walked into battle after battle prepared to die if necessary for Queen and Country. That day, he was willing to do it for Sherlock if it meant the man could live. But fate didn't call their number that night. And as Sherlock stripped him of the trap, all the while checking to see if he was okay, John once again remembered how they once were.

“People will talk.”

“They do little else,” Sherlock smiled.

From that moment on, incidental touches started to linger for moments longer than necessary. Secret smiles and shared looks graced their features more frequently. If John didn't know any better he would say they were starting over. It wasn’t until they were deep within Moriarty’s game, that things come to a head. John watched in horror as Sherlock stood on the edge of the roof, told John to watch him, to be his note, then said goodbye and fell. As John rushed and saw Sherlock’s body broken and crumbled, surrounded by a pool a blood he couldn't help but remember that morning or maybe late the night before, when he thought he was just having another strange dream. John was sleeping heavily when his bed dipped and a long lanky body curled into his and enveloped him. A brief kiss at the nape of John’s neck came next, followed by the words whispered in a sorrowful sigh. _I love you, John Watson_. _Marry me_.

John woke early the next morning, the ‘dream’ still heavy on his mind and a foreboding feeling in his gut. If losing Sherlock the first time was hard, this was so much worse. How he would give anything to have one more moment to throw away all his doubts and fears and tell Sherlock he still loved him back. Instead he said the only thing that came to mind as he frantically checked for a pulse. _Come back to me_.

Friends came by to check on him, Mrs. Hudson fretted, even Mycroft would occasionally find his way along John’s route by “coincidence”. As if Sherlock didn't already teach him there was no such thing as coincidence. Hours, days, weeks, they didn't register. The truth was that the only time John felt anything was when he was staring at Sherlock’s tombstone and then it was sorrow.

Year two, he met Mary. She was kind, she was attentive and most of all she didn't seem to mind the fact that he was mourning for his friend like a widower. John liked her, and over time, he even convinced himself he loved her. Mary held him when he had nightmares that had him crying out for a ghost he believed was gone forever. She seemed to understand that she would never have all of his heart, yet she loved him anyway. John knew he didn't feel for Mary like he did Sherlock, but he no longer cared. Sherlock was his past and Mary was going to be his future. But on the night he sat ready to propose, John's past came back to haunt him. Sherlock walked back into his life and once again John's world was upended. 

Sorrow and relief morphed into anger. Sherlock had apologized over and over, explaining with every other breath his reasons why, but John was beyond listening. Nothing would change the fact that their relationship, their friendship, was beyond saving in John's mind. The bond he and Sherlock once shared was destroyed, frayed down to a thin string that was unraveling. But when John was kidnapped and Mary turned out to be more of a mystery than they both realized, it was that thin string that held them together. It grew into something tangible; something fragile, something John forgot how much he wanted and needed. It didn't matter though, it couldn’t matter - that’s what his brain kept telling him. John had made his choice and Sherlock was fine with it- they both were. Which is why they were both caught off guard when those haunting words were once again uttered into existence, albeit silently.

It was his stag night. Sherlock never did have a high tolerance for alcohol. Not to mention that when he did imbibe, it made him open up and become more malleable; it always did. John should've known better. Of course, Sherlock would hide behind his favourite excuse- _it's an experiment John,_ while ordering them both more drinks. After returning to the flat, they sat in their old chairs surrounded by a haze of memories, said and unsaid. With each passing moment, the air became thick with the sense of ‘something’. Feelings hidden but not forgotten clouded John’s vision. And when John looked at Sherlock, he saw the man he had fallen in love with; the man he knew he was still in love with. Sherlock smiled and moved in close. John followed suit. Somewhere inside of him, his brain was screaming that this was wrong; to remember Mary. But John knew, in this moment he would gladly be a bastard to have _him_ back. Because everything in his heart was speaking a different tune- asking the question he couldn't voice - not again. _Marry me, Sherlock._

The chime of a client broke through the silent conversation. Neither of them moved, unable or maybe unwilling to break the spell. Sherlock captured John’s gaze, and for one moment it was all there, the truth for all to see. But just like before, it disappeared and Sherlock’s mask was back in place, a familiar gaze and answer in its wake. John heard it as if the man had spoken the words out loud; _come back to me._

From then it became both easier and more difficult. Sherlock kept himself busy either with work or with John and Mary’s wedding plans. Between serviettes, and seating arrangements, it wasn’t a problem to forget that night Sherlock and he sat together as _what was_ and _what could be_ became intertwined. But on some occasions, John had no choice but to be reminded.

“What do you mean, you can't dance? We used to dance years ago.”

It took John a minute to reply. That was the first time Sherlock had mentioned anything of their previous relationship since reconnecting. John quickly tried to look indifferent, knowing Sherlock would see the thoughts as if he had spoken them aloud.

“Well, we weren't dancing a waltz then,” he answered casually (or at least he hoped he did).

“True. True. Well, come on then. I will show you.”

“You know how to waltz?”

John ignored the silent look that surely had John being called among other things an _idiot._

“Right then.”

Sherlock smiled briefly and held his arms out. “We’ll start in the standard position.”

“Um... Do you think we could close the curtains?”

“Seriously, John. Are you afraid that you will be seen or that you might catch…”

“Just do it,” he interrupted, not liking where that statement was going.

“Fine,” Sherlock hissed, before going over to the window and yanking the curtains shut.

“Thank you. Now you were saying…” John retorted, as he fell into Sherlock’s arms.

The next time those words were uttered were supposed to be the last time. It was to be a last nod to something they both knew now they could never have. Too much had happened, too many lies and truths were exposed. Sherlock bore the scar of Mary’s betrayal and John bore the guilt of it. Nonetheless, for the good of all, Sherlock stood on the runway and tried to say goodbye. John knew this was it; knew Sherlock wouldn't be coming back. He hated that truth, though in true British form, he held it all inside. Until Sherlock, (which by the way John knew wasn’t a girl’s name), pulled him in close and whispered in his ear.

“Marry me.”

John couldn’t stop the pained moan from escaping his resolve. Like a broken record, the words fell easily from his lips.

“Come back to me,” he managed to choke out, before managing a weak smile.

Sherlock smiled than, the one only John got to see and reached for John’s hand to shake before briskly turning to board the plane. He never once looked back. John felt like he was going to be sick. When the plane turned around five minutes later because Moriarty was back, John was.

They didn't speak of it. Like so many other things, it would become a secret they kept from each other and the rest of the world. But secrets have a way of getting out - even those kept hidden in the shadows.

As John stood suspended in a well of rising water, all he could think about were the choices he had made over the years. He regretted only a few. Becoming a doctor and a soldier? John would do it all again in a heartbeat. Loving Sherlock? John would most definitely do again; and for all time, if he could. Not fighting for them to be together when he had chance after chance after chance? That, he would regret forever, however long that would be. As a doctor, he knew the signs of hypothermia and shock. His limbs felt heavy, and he closed his eyes. When he heard Sherlock’s frantic baritone calling out to him to hang on from above, John wanted to believe he would be saved in time, that he had yet been given one more chance. But there are only so many times one could cheat death. For a second he was no longer cold, and somewhere in the back of his addled brain, John knew he was either at the last moments of his life or someone was with him.

“Don't be ridiculous, John. You know I’d be lost without my blogger.”

A strangled cry spilled from John’s lips and the words tumbled out unintelligently. “Marry me.”

John felt Sherlock’s strong arms grip him tighter, surrounding him in warmth.

“Just come back to me, John. Come back.”

 

~~~~~

They say time is infinite in its wisdom. Day turns to night; the moon revolves around the earth and sun and true love has a habit of coming back. When John woke in the early morning dawn sated and sore with Sherlock’s nude frame surrounding him, he knew he would never want anything else. He was finally home- they both were. It made John wonder if maybe they had been doing it wrong all these years. He softly chuckled as the thought made more and more sense. Soft black curls tickled his chin as Sherlock, whose brain seemed to capture the moment John was awake, stirred.

“John?” he murmured sleepily.

John took a deep breath and a leap (okay, a mild skip) of faith and took a different approach to their usual conversation.

“I came back to you, Sherlock. I will **always** come back to you.”

The body on top of his went unnaturally still. John waited, hoped his calculation would pay off the dividend he always wanted.

Sherlock slowly lifted his head, so that he could capture John’s gaze. Immediately, his face broke out into a wide grin before he spoke.

“Yes.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm  [sairyn-noc](https://sairyn-noc.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come by and say hi. 
> 
> Sending a special shout out to my girls Novemberhush and Writingtoreachyou, who beta'd while I whined and complained as I both loved and hated this from the title down. LOL  
> Love you both.


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